One Last Piece to Lose
by Sarah1281
Summary: The Precursors had been discarding little pieces of Newt for some time, before he even really noticed. Now his once-prominent instrument collection has shrunken down to one guitar he's had since before he could remember and he's standing outside of a pawn shop. He knows how this story ends. He can't change this. But maybe Hermann can.


Based on the heartbreaking headcanon by katedoesntexist on Tumblr about Newt's lack of musical instruments in Uprising.

* * *

Newt had music in his blood, he really did.

Hermann, bless him, would have scoffed and called such a turn of phrase as overly poetic but how else could he describe it?

According to his father, he had fallen in love the moment he heard Monica sing. Well, okay, that sounded a bit too Phantom of the Opera for him but he supposed it wasn't completely unheard of. Monica was a huge name with millions of adoring fans. His father couldn't have been the only one and that was the first time he had ever been in a room – albeit a gigantic room at an opera house – as her.

Newt hadn't fallen in love until Hermann had torn one of his papers apart so thoroughly it made him feel like he was an absolute idiot so maybe he didn't have room to judge.

Newt had never heard Monica's side of the story but his father had always said that they had happened to be at the same party and he was playing the piano and he caught her eye and she looked mesmerized as she moved closer and hadn't left his side the entire night.

Was that love? Maybe that was love. Not enough to get married or leave her husband or, God forbid, see her only child more than twice a year but it could be love. No one ever said love had to last or be not kind of shitty, anyway.

His father played pianos and tuned them and fixed them and, from time to time, made them. Newt knew a thing or two about passion but he never could understand how his father could put all of his into just one thing. But it made him happy and it made him comfortable so maybe he didn't have to know.

Uncle Illia was more like him. He was an audio engineer and a damn good one. He stuck with the one field but was always taking classes and reading books and bouncing around from sub-discipline to sub-discipline in the field.

Newt had been playing instruments so long that he didn't even remember learning the basics of the guitar. That was just a skill he had always possessed. When he came across a new instrument he couldn't play he immediately bought one and set about trying to master it, a feat that took less and less time as the number of instruments he could rock grew. He didn't even know how many instruments he had at one point because, while he technically only needed one of each, he couldn't deny that if he came across an instrument that was really badass or unique or just otherwise caught his eye he always ended up taking it home with him.

Who said fourteen guitars was too many, anyway?

Well.

That was the thing, wasn't it?

They did.

They thought that one was too many.

Newt had never sold an instrument in his life but then the Hong Kong base was closing. He'd lived there for years. He'd accumulated far too much crap to ever take it all with him and, sure, he could put most of it into storage but at some point it stopped being storage and started being outright hoarding behavior.

He was moving to another country. He was moving to a penthouse. Did it really make any sense to try and drag a grand piano with him there? And he'd had problems with movers before (and seen all those cartoons where the piano is being airlifted and drops and kills someone and just because it probably wouldn't happen didn't mean that the idea wasn't still a little bit creepy). One time, when he was moving from MIT to his first Shatterdome, the moving company had broken a beautiful candle holder a friend had gotten him for Christmas as well as virtually all of his dishes. Plus just because Shao had taken his stunned disbelief at how much she was trying to pay him as dissatisfaction and kept raising the amount before he had come to his senses and accepted the offer just so she wouldn't try to, like, buy him a star or something (he had realized, then, that he did want a star and pestered Hermann until he had bought one for him but it was just kind of weird when his boss wanted to do it for him) didn't mean that he should be _that _asshole who, like, lit hundred dollar bills on fire in front of homeless people. Newt was always going to be reckless as fuck with his money but there had to be some kind of line in the sand and it really seemed like moving a piano from Hong Kong to Shanghai. It was like 800 miles away.

And he could always buy another one once he was settled.

He didn't but he could have.

It had all made so much sense. It hurt now to wonder why, exactly, he had decided to sell the piano. It had just seemed so reasonable but, then, a lot of things did these days, didn't it? Including working for a woman who fortunately didn't remember that her mother had tried very, very hard to get a restraining order against him for protesting her company one year on the grounds of it being a capitalist dystopian nightmare. He hadn't thought Liwen Shao was any different and it took her approximately three minutes to decide that she hated him and had to constantly remind herself he was a genius and not the stupidest person she ever met. And the fact that he just couldn't seem to wrap his mind around Mandarin certainly didn't help. He hadn't had time to learn during the war despite where he was stationed and now, when he had the time and all the reason in the world to learn, he could never manage to retain more than a few words at a time. He'd never had problems with languages before but, then, Mandarin didn't have the same common roots some of his other languages did. That made sense. It had to make sense.

And so did his taking a good hard look at the probable future of the PPDC and what Shao Industries was offering and choosing to bite his tongue instead of going on what was assuredly a much-deserved rant about all the ways she personally was ruining the world. Some days he didn't even think that anymore when he looked at her. That was good. Stressful working for her when he felt like painting a protest sign instead.

There had been academia, of course, but by the time that had occurred to him as a valid prospect he was already signing his name on the line.

Shao hated his wardrobe. She hated everything about him, really, except for his star power and his ability to find the solutions no one else could. She picked her battles, same as he did, and having a wardrobe befitting of his status as an important representative of Shao Industries was not something she was about to back down from.

And that was fine. That made sense. Different clothes for different climates. Just because MIT only wanted him to follow the student dress code even as a teacher and Stacker Pentecost literally did not care what he did so long as he produced results didn't mean that he didn't know that that wasn't how most of the world worked.

The only problem was that he hadn't needed the almost obscene walk-in closet for clothes he was perfectly happy shoving into his drawers.

Instead they'd been full of the instruments he loved so much.

And there was really only so much space in his apartment.

What was he supposed to do, just put them all in a pile in the corner?

And so fourteen guitars because twelve became ten because seven. There simply wasn't room for the tuba and the double bass. Sacrifices but necessary. He lived in an apartment and had to act like it.

There were always reasons.

One day his bongo drums were in his hands and he was reasoning out loud that he hadn't exactly made any new friends since coming to Shanghai and bongos were more of a multi-person activity. Since he didn't have anyone to play with and no time to play if he did, wouldn't it be better to just get rid of them? It had been almost a surprise to hear his own voice say that but could he really argue with any of that? At the PPDC he hadn't had any time and no music buddies to play with but that was then and this was now. New job, new life. Was he planning on hanging on to his baby blanket, too?

Somehow, he found himself standing outside of the pawn shop holding his guitar.

His only guitar.

The others were long gone.

All the instruments were gone by now. All except for this one.

And he was standing outside of a pawn shop.

His legs shook but he was frozen to the spot.

His father had bought this guitar for him far too early. He had been two and only able to call it a 'gee-ta.'

The guitar had been taller than him until a few weeks after his third birthday. He'd seen the pictures that proved it.

It wasn't the nicest guitar. It wasn't a piece of shit, either, but it was well over three decades old and had been purchased for someone who would have been more interested in chewing on it than in trying to play it. Newt knew his dad was always surprised he still had it.

It had only cost $40. One of his guitars had cost him $4000 and he'd never regretted that little splurge.

That one had gone away three months ago.

This guitar had an inch of black at the edge going around the whole guitar. The rest of it was a brilliant emerald color Uncle Illia always said matched his eyes as if they weren't all aware of his central heterochromia. The part of his eye closest to the iris was kind of orange and the rest was blue or green depending on the lighting.

He could hardly see any of the emerald anymore. He'd been four when he slapped his first sticker on the guitar (a pink power ranger, if he remembered correctly). He had never really stopped putting stickers on. The logo for every band whose concert he had gone to. His favorite character from every fandom he'd ever been in. A picture from of the subject of every research paper he'd ever written. Even every individual kaiju. Some stickers he could only see partially anymore because they had been covered by newer stickers.

That guitar was like a road map of his life. It explained him far more personally than any diary could have.

This was who he was. This is how he lived. This is what he cared about.

He couldn't think of a single reason to get rid of it and a million to keep it.

When had he entered the store?

_Please don't_, he begged. _Please just let me keep it. It's one instrument. _

Their answer came with a twinge of pain right behind his eyes. _You know better than to seek to alter our course. _

Newt gripped the handle of the case harder. _It's just one guitar. All the rest are gone. _

_There is no reason to keep it_.

There was. There were so many reasons. But none that would do him any good now. _There's no reason to get rid of it either. _

_That is inaccurate. _Another twinge of pain before They deigned to explain further. _This guitar holds much sentimental value for you. _

Newt blinked stupidly. He knew how They felt about sentiment. They had no use for it Themselves and so little desire to indulge it in him. More to the point, when They were working to grind him down so it was easier to use his brain and his hands to destroy everything he had ever known and loved and hated and the things he had never gotten the chance to discover, it was easier for Them to cut him off from the people that mattered.

Not only did the people he cared for pose the risk of asking too many questions or worrying too much about how clearly not okay he was or all of these changes but Newt was slowly accepting the idea that his body and mind would be used to destroy the world. Acceptance was not the same as agreement. Perhaps…perhaps acknowledge was the better word. Every day it seemed more and more the inevitable future. Whenever Newt saw a baby born since the breach had been closed, a little girl that looked like Mako, a little boy whose energy reminded him of Jake the Precursors had to press down a little harder to keep him in line.

Whenever he so much thought of the people he had been torn from he remembered why he was fighting Them despite how pointless it sometimes felt or how much it _hurt_. Maybe if they were around he'd be able to steal control for a second and say something They wouldn't want him to. Maybe he wouldn't. But They'd never make any progress dulling his resistance if he had to look at the faces of the people he couldn't bear to lose and know every day he was killing them by inches.

He understood why he was only permitted contact when it would be a voice mail.

But this…

_I can't even have objects that matter to me? People I understand but…_

_It's the same principle. This guitar is not a necessary item and its only purpose is to remind you of the time before us. You do not need encouragement to dwell on the past and resist us. It would be madness to allow you to keep it. _

A sound escaped Newt's lips that could just have easily been a laugh as a sob. The man behind the counter did not look up. _I'm never going to just forget about the past. I couldn't. It's most of my fucking life. _

_And it is over. And you still do not truly believe that. We will not aid you in this rebellion. _

Rebellion. Wishing things were different and remembering better times was rebellion. What kind of 1984 hellscape had he found himself in?

His feet began to head to the counter.

He tried to stop.

His pace slowed but did not falter.

_I need something, guys, I really do_, he begged again. He used to have so much goddamn pride, didn't he? What ever happened to that? What use was it anymore?

_No. You do not. _

_Please_, he said again.

The man behind the counter looked up at him. "Buying or selling?"

"Selling," Newt's voice said.

The man nodded and put the glasses on a chain around his neck up to his eyes. "Let's see it then."

Newt's hands shook worse than they ever had performing a dissection. Still, they put the case up on the counter and, after a few moments of fumbling with the clasps, revealed what Newt was quickly becoming aware was the most important thing he still owned.

Because what else was there? The rest of the instruments were gone. The action figures were gone. The posters, the anime, the books, the movies, the clothes were all gone. Even his fucking _glasses_ were gone.

All he had the Precursors had chosen for him. All that remained was this tiny little instrument.

He was going to have to watch himself dispose of that as well.

Maybe he should just count his blessings They hadn't decided to burn it.

_Don't do this don't do this please don't do this_.

It didn't matter. They didn't acknowledge his pleading for all he knew They could not shut it out.

The man gingerly picked the guitar up and gave Newt's lifeline a thoroughly unimpressed look.

_Don't you touch it! Don't you dare! You don't know what that means! _

"What's this, baby's first guitar?" the man asked.

"Something like that," Newt's voice said steadily, sounding almost bored. "How much will you give me?"

"Well it's old as fuck," the man said consideringly. "In pretty good condition if it weren't for all the stickers. That really lowers the resale value, no one's going to want something vintage or retro with that crap all over it. Tell you what. I'll give you 235 Renminbi."

35 dollars. Less than it had cost all those years ago and no consideration at all for inflation.

"I'll take it," Newt heard himself say. No hesitation, no attempt at haggling.

The man looked briefly surprised but quickly smoothed that over into a polite smile. "Very good, very good. Just sign this and I can get you your money and you are good to go. There is a one month waiting period on all items before we sell them in case you change your mind or have the money to purchase it back."

The Precursors didn't look at the pawn ticket the man was attempting to give them. "I don't need that."

Newt gave up on words entirely then and just screamed his frustration into the void.

There was a twinge of annoyance from Them which translated into a searing pain in his leg but no other response.

The man looked apologetic. "I really have to give you this. You don't have to keep it."

"Fine."

The Precursors took the money and the ticket. The money went into Newt's wallet while the ticket was tossed into the trashcan outside the shop.

That was it.

It had taken less than five minutes to part with the only meaningful link he had left to…well to anything that wasn't Them. Maybe that was the idea. He had tried so hard and it hadn't mattered at all. They had first brought up the idea two weeks ago and now it was done. He had tried and he had delayed but in the end he just wasn't strong enough.

At that thought the pain in his leg abruptly ceased.

What was that? Goddamn conditioning? Negative reinforcement when he accepts how powerless he really is?

He couldn't do this. He really couldn't.

They kept control all the way back to the apartment which wasn't a good thing, he would never say it was a good thing, but was perhaps a useful thing as he highly doubted he'd have made it back on his own.

The moment he stepped over the threshold of the apartment and the door was safely shut and locked behind him, They released him. And why not? They had gotten Their way. What did They care what he did now so long as it wouldn't damage Their plans?

He sunk to the ground, feeling oddly boneless.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

He had barely curled up into himself when the tears came, hot and fast. He didn't try to stop them or wipe them away, just let them come.

He focused on breathing through his nose until he had cried so hard he was congested and his shoulders started to shake. His breathing came out louder and harsher and he distantly wondered if he was on the verge of a panic attack. What did it even matter?

He didn't recognize anything about this room, about this apartment, about this city, about this fucking _life_.

What was Newton Geiszler anyway? A name? A body? There was nothing else he had ever defined himself as or that had made up a part of his life back when it was truly his that was still there. When did someone cease to be themselves? And if he wasn't Newton Geiszler, who – what – was he even? Just the Precursors puppet?

There was an almost gentle nudge in his head to get up and go connect with Alice.

There always was whenever he started to cry.

They didn't want him to think too hard about all the ways that They had ruined him. Too much stress on his end made him a less efficient tool. And it was such a waste to spend hours crying when he could simply reinforce Their control over him and override his tears with dopamine.

Usually he would let Them. Usually he didn't want to think too hard about this little hostage situation any more than They wanted him to dwell on it. If They were going to force him to drift anyway, why not allow it to keep the heartache at bay, at least for the moment?

But now he had just given the last piece of Newton Geiszler away and if he had his way he would never move from this exact spot on the floor.

He wouldn't get his way in the end. They'd make him move eventually.

But for now he stayed exactly where he was and tried to let his sobs drown out his thoughts.

* * *

Hermann hated to travel.

Over the years he had found that to be a minority position, particularly given the sheer amount of travel he had engaged in personally but he rather felt that made him an authority on just how bloody aggravating the whole thing was.

He had to usually wake up at some ungodly hour and spend far too long going through security and then waiting around at an airport. There was a fee for checking luggage and he had to wait around after the flight with everyone else who had been there, when all he wanted to do was take a nap, for his luggage to come around and hope it looked distinct enough from everyone else's he could find it easily.

There was always too much walking at airports.

He had sit in a cramped seat and hope that the person in front of him did not decide to be a horrible human being and lean their chair back so they could better relax or take a nap while his leg space all but disappeared. And after a long flight, leg cramps were inevitable but there was not much opportunity for movement. When the flight took off and then landed his stomach always lurched and his ears popped and he was supposed to turn his electronic devices off so he could not even distract himself with music during this time. Eventually he could purchase internet but the prices were too high for the internet speed.

He had to hope that the people sitting next to him did not take up too much room or want to keep getting up or, God forbid, actually make conversation with him. He rather thought he gave off a more off-putting aura than the people he was trapped with for several hours seemed to think. He sincerely had to hope there were no small children on the flights because there was really no helping all the ruckus they would make.

Trains weren't any better. Trains often meant he wasn't travelling as far but that did not necessarily mean the time travelling was cut down as trains travelled significantly slower than planes. There was more legroom and more places to walk, assuming the train wasn't packed and he was surrounded by strangers facing him, but the internet wasn't any better and there were other stops to make.

And then there was the hassle of renting a car or taking the public transportation and checking into a hotel and trying to figure out his meals and hoping his clothing was not too rumpled by the trip. The internet was never fast enough for what he needed and he never slept very well his first night in a new place. Often, too, if he did not have an early meeting the hotel cleaning staff would want to come by and he'd just find it horribly awkward figuring out whether to try and keep them out or to awkwardly sit around and stay out of their way while they cleaned.

Unfortunately, a man in Hermann's position could not communicate with distant coworkers solely through electronic means. He did his best to encourage them to come to him but sometimes he really did need to be in distant locales and he just had to grit his teeth and bear it. The expression was grin and bear it, of course, but that would not be an accurate depiction of Hermann suffering through these ordeals.

Though, if he were being perfectly honest with himself, it was somewhat easier to persuade him to travel to Shanghai than anywhere else in the world even if Shanghai was still 1,226 kilometers away.

He could admit that.

Some days he could even admit why.

Hermann had business in Shanghai. The business absolutely came first. It was the whole reason he was there and he was a bloody professional.

He had taken the train on Monday and collapsed onto his bed in his hotel room almost immediately as an eight and a half hour train ride might be the easiest way to travel between the two cities but it was also quite an ordeal.

Today he had conducted his business as quickly and efficiently as possible to avoid needlessly wasting time.

Tomorrow he would be heading back to Hong Kong. His train wasn't first thing in the morning because he had not wanted to have to rush but it was early enough that he would not be returning home at an unreasonable hour.

There and back in three days flat.

He could have stayed longer.

He was tempted to.

But what would be the point?

He had no desire to behave the tourist and, at any rate, he was travelling during the work week at the PPDC's expense.

He had tried to make contact with Newton.

He had agonized over just how to phrase it, how to reach out, how often should he wait after not hearing a response before trying again, and when to just accept the fact that Newton was too busy to see him.

Or maybe he just didn't want to.

No. Absolutely not. He was not travelling down that rabbit hole. Not today.

Hermann's trip had been scheduled three weeks in advance, his superiors mindful of how much he desired certainty in his schedule.

He had decided to text Newton with a simple 'hello' because Newton had a terrible habit of never answering his phone and calling back at the most inopportune times so Hermann couldn't answer either. There was still no winner in their perpetual game of phone tag and it had been _years_.

He hadn't known what to say in the inevitable voicemail. If he had had to take the time to plan it out he would have taken hours and he didn't want this news to wait for _hours_.

So 'hello.'

He could have said more. Could have explained what it was that he wanted.

Except he was strangely nervous. Newton was always so busy these days. Always had time for him but never a lot of it. Never enough of it. And Hermann…well, he didn't want to impose. Didn't want to be a burden. Not ever, as it happened, but certainly not to this man.

And despite what Newton had said about missing all of the shots you didn't take, it had always been easier for him to leave things unresolved and know there was a chance what he wanted to happen could happen rather than facing the sting of rejection. He had a lot of experience with rejection. Call it cognitive bias that those times came to mind far easier than the times he surely must have taken a risk and have it paid off. It was like that for everyone, wasn't it? Something about evolution and how long ago it was far more important to remember negative experiences to learn from and avoid them in the future than when things went well.

Newton didn't always reply to his texts right away. He usually didn't. It had once taken him sixteen days to respond to a simple query about one of Newton's former colleagues Hermann had encountered. Hermann had his own thoughts and had done his own research, of course, but he trusted Newton's opinion rather a lot these days. Well, to be more precise, he was more apt to admit that he did.

Hermann couldn't remember the last time Newton had been able to reply to a text in less than an hour. He didn't take it personally. He just rather thought it would be easier to wait on an answer to a vague 'hello' than the news that he was coming to Shanghai and a request to see him.

It had taken four days for Newton to text back 'Hey, dude.'

Hermann, never fussed about the implications of when someone replied to a message and not wanting to lose any more time, had immediately responded with 'I am coming to Shanghai for business.'

Seven days and Newton answered with 'Sweet.'

'I was wondering if I might see you while I was there.'

'Hey, that'd be cool' came two days later.

'I'm so glad to hear that, Newton.'

Four days later Newton thought to ask 'When are you coming?'

'This Monday I'm taking the train in. I know it's short notice but I'm in the city until just after lunch on Wednesday.'

It hadn't been short notice when he had first reached out to Newton but it was no one's fault that that is what ended up happening.

He hadn't heard anything before he arrived in Shanghai and, though he kept looking at his messages hopefully, there was still nothing.

Newton was busy.

It made sense. It really did. Hermann couldn't deny that he wished Newton could have let him know and not just left him waiting but he knew Newton. Knew he was terribly unorganized at the best of times and while being one of Shao Industry's top people wasn't as stressful as fighting off the end of the world it might be nearly as demanding. Sometimes things – people – slipped through the cracks. He really couldn't ask for anything more.

He briefly considered calling but he'd already sent a message and if four days was short notice the night of or even the night before most certainly was.

It was no one's fault but Hermann was dangerously close to feeling pathetic and that was not a sensation that he welcomed.

No, this trip there would be no Newton. There hadn't been last time, either. The time before had been nice if a little shorter than Hermann had been hoping for.

That was just how it was with Newton, he supposed. Either he was sending him letters as fast as he could write them and they were living out of each other's pockets or there was icy silence between them for years. They had never quite learned how to just maintain a normal level of intimacy and communication and there were still growing pains.

It was too early for Hermann to feel justified just going back to his hotel room and reading and he had been dreading the trip too much to have possibly looked into possible areas of interest near him.

And so it was he found himself going for a walk. It wouldn't be a long one, of course, and he was hoping he would be able to gauge the distance well enough that he wouldn't need to use a taxi to return to the hotel.

The air was pleasantly cool and the wind only strong enough to ruffle his hair but not cause any real inconvenience. The sun would be setting soon and then maybe he'd wish he had worn a warmer jacket.

His eyes flitted across the store windows but nothing piqued his interest enough to venture into the shop. He was not hear looking to buy anything in particular and his aim had been a walk not a shopping expedition. He did admire some of the creative decorations he saw idly took note of everything he was absolutely certain Newton had excitedly taken pictures of the first time he had been down that way.

Just as his leg began to send the telltale signal that while it was not going to be causing him pain just yet, it would soon begin to and so he really should hurry if he wanted to make it back to his room without needing some sort of assistance getting there, a flash of movement caught his eye and he automatically turned towards it.

A woman was browsing in the building just up ahead, a pawn shop by the looks of it, and behind her was a gaudy stickered monstrosity trying to pass itself off as a guitar. Hermann's lip curled in distaste even as an impossible suspicion that he knew that eyesore crept up on him.

It didn't matter. It really didn't. But Hermann had never been the sort to 'let things go' and, imminent leg pain or not, this was going to bother him for approximately the rest of his life if he didn't take a closer look so – reluctantly – he entered the store.

The man behind the counter gave him a once-over before turning back to what he was doing.

Hermann could vaguely see the guitar was green, even hidden as it was by all the stickers. He knew those stickers. Karloff and Kaiceph. Naruto. Steve Rogers. A chibi sticker he'd had commissioned of himself and Hermann. Commander Shepard. Almost every inch of it covered with overlapping stickers, every last one of them quite ridiculous and just screaming 'Newton'.

"Why is this here?" Hermann asked, his eyes not straying from the guitar.

"Because the owner sold it to me."

No. Newt would never. He was far too sentimental for that. He had held onto that for more than thirty years.

"I don't believe that," Hermann said flatly.

"I don't really care what you believe," the man replied.

"It has to be stolen," Hermann said. Surely it would have been. Why wouldn't Newton have mentioned it? Well, maybe that was why he had been so distracted before Hermann had arrived.

"Could be," the man said. "I doubt it, though. I've seen people try to fence stolen merchandise. They try not to draw too much attention to themselves. Look either nervous or perfectly at ease. This guy I remember because he didn't want his ticket and threw it away outside. And his hands were shaking so hard I figure he's either jonesing for a fix or he really don't want to sell. Kind of makes it weird that he threw the ticket out then but if he knew he wasn't going to be able to get the money I guess why hang on to the hope? I get all kinds here, seen just about everything."

Hermann's gaze slid to the man only to immediately find their way back to the guitar.

Newton's guitar.

It was a small, gaudy thing with absolutely no resale value – as Hermann had made sure to remind Newton on multiple occasions – but it deserved a better fate than this.

"How much?"

* * *

Newt knew that it was a good sign that he was so bored that he was attempting to fall asleep through sheer force of will despite the fact he had slept fourteen hours earlier and did not think it was possible to be any les tired.

Really. It was a great sign.

In a way, boredom was almost a luxury if you really thought about it. You couldn't be bored when you were terrified or in pain or just generally actively suffering. Before the other day he hadn't felt bored for, oh, what was it? Seven or eight years. It was literally impossible to be bored with the Precursors running the show.

Say what you would about Them – Newt certainly did – but They knew how to spice up a guy's life and keep him on his toes.

If Hermann wanted to be a way bigger asshole than he normally was, he would probably have reminded Newt that they'd been arguing for years about whether there was such a thing as "too exciting" and whether that could possibly be a bad thing if it were true.

Newt kind of wished he would, actually. It'd be a horrible thing to say but proof Hermann wasn't walking around on fucking eggshells around him.

Not that it was fair to get occasionally annoyed people were – God forbid – attempting to take his feelings into consideration when it came to several years of unbelievably bad crap he sometimes (even then) had difficulty believing was even his life.

Counterpoint: if there ever was a time to not give a damn about fairness wasn't it now when people were practically begging him to "let it all out"?

That was the problem with being a bit of a contrarian. He didn't want to do something because someone said to and didn't want to do something because someone said not to and didn't want to do something because someone was trying to provoke that response in him by either encouraging or discouraging the course of action depending on how they thought they could best manipulate him and…it really was best to just try and make his choices independently of what other people wanted.

He used to be good at that.

Despite the fact he had largely not been paying attention to the unchanging surroundings, Newt's eyes were still drawn to the sudden motion of the door opening.

"Hermann," Newt said with a smile he would have been quite helpless to stop even if he had had any notion of doing so. He'd always had a smile for Hermann, ever since the drift, no matter how twisted it had come out under the influence of the Precursors.

It would have been rather embarrassing if Hermann hadn't been the exact same way. But his smiles had always been so painfully earnest and pure. "Newton."

Newt let the moment linger and just basked in the warmth of their matching lovesick smiles.

Today Hermann lost the unspoken but totally real battle of wills to see who would break the moment. He sat down on the armchair across from Newt's couch. "How are you doing?"

Newt rolled his eyes. "You ask me that every day, dude. The answer doesn't change much from day to day. It's kind of like weighing yourself, you know? Some ups and downs but if you want to track the change you should really only do it once a week."

Hermann shrugged. "Perhaps. But given the circumstances I would feel uncomfortable brushing right past your mental and emotional state to talk about whatever I came in to talk about."

"Well here I am inviting you – nay, _begging _you, to do just that," Newt said, dramatically throwing his arms out. "I'll tell you if anything changes."

Hermann snorted. "No you won't."

Well, Hermann had him there. It was bad enough that Newt had to have trauma from all of this and couldn't just ignore this outside of therapy /and Hermann had seen as much of it as he had when he would really rather just put it one of those nifty little brain boxes from Book of Mormon and crush it.

He didn't want to make it worse by mentioning stupid little things like last night he had felt a wave of depression hit him while he was finishing dinner and he didn't know what caused it and hadn't been thinking of anything sad at the time. He had known it would go away overnight when he slept but lacked the motivation to sleep and so played Pokémon Puzzle League until he'd started to dissociate and finally went to bed.

But that was yesterday and today was a little dull but otherwise fine and if he mentioned every little time something like that happened to Hermann they'd talk about nothing else and Hermann would think he was doing far worse than he was and, frankly, those sorts of things really weren't his favorite topic of conversation anyway.

"I can promise you that if I'm not inclined to tell you anything bad – your words, not mine – then I'm not going to change my mind just because you _won't stop asking_," Newt said pointedly.

"I know," Hermann admitted. "But I'm just worried."

"You're always worried," Newt grumbled.

"To be fair, I've got a lot of things I need to worry about and a limited span of time to do it in before you actually decide to kill me," Hermann said.

Newt immediately perked up at Hermann's willingness to make a joke about Newt killing him even after that whole awkward mess. Still. "You know where you can stick your worries, Hermann?"

"In the fridge?"

Newt laughed. "Oh my God, I hate you."

"The history books will note how I am underappreciated in my time," Hermann said wryly. "I brought you something, you know."

"How could I possibly know that?" Newt asked. It wasn't honestly a surprise. Hermann usually brought him something even though he visited at least once a day. That was where most of his clothes and books and tchotchkes and non-internet capable electronics had come from, after all.

But Hermann didn't look like he had anything on him. Was it in his pocket? He leaned over so far to try and see this hidden gift that he almost fell off the couch.

"It's in the hall," Hermann clarified, his lips twitching upwards.

"That's not a great place to put things you want me to have, Hermann."

"Well I wanted to check in with you and you make that difficult enough as it is without the added distraction of a present."

"I am a simple man with simple needs and handsome men giving me presents fulfills most of those needs," Newt said airily.

Hermann laughed and stood to retrieve his package from the hall.

He returned with a slightly-worn black case and set it down in Newt's lap.

"Is it a pony?" Newt asked.

"Does it look like a pony would fit in here?"

Newt shrugged. "Maybe not in one piece unless you, like, shrunk it or something. But I don't know your life! There really should be air holes, though…"

"Do you want a pony? I could look into obtaining one," Hermann offered.

Newt squinted at Hermann, trying to gauge how genuine this offer was. On the one hand, that would be totally awesome. On the other, it would also be rather impractical and Hermann had to have some sort of limits somewhere.

"Is it an octopus? I want an octopus."

"I could deny it," Hermann said. "But then I suspect you will do nothing but guess until you happen upon what it is and if you want to do it that way then frankly I would prefer we play twenty questions."

"I'm not that big on twenty questions actually," Newt said. "People always get pissy if you pick something they've never heard of and there's just so much debate on multi-part questions."

"Then it seems there's only one way to proceed," Hermann said, looking pointedly at the case in Newt's lap.

Newt gave a long put-upon sigh. "Oh, very well. If you absolutely insist."

Hermann gave him a pointed look. "If this is such an imposition on you, I could always just not bring you presents."

"And deprive me of all of this?" Newt asked, gesturing vaguely around him. "Never."

He turned his attention to the case. It was old, that was clear. Well taken care of but still showing signs of its time on this Earth. It had familiar metal clasps on the side as if he had any doubt that this was an instrument.

Hermann had gotten him instruments before. He had had a harmonica pressed into his hands back when he was barely even aware that Hermann was in the room.

He slowly opened the latch, wondering what it would be today. Something decent-sized, that was for sure. Maybe a violin or a saxophone or something. A trumpet.

Newt blinked, his brain not processing what his eyes were looking at. He blinked again. Aside from his eyes and his suddenly labored breathing, he was frozen.

This didn't make sense. His stupid brain was malfunctioning and trying to tell him things that simply weren't true and he had had more than enough of that to last a lifetime.

They were going to be letting him out any day now. Hermann had promised. Dr. Lydia had promised. They just had to wait for the red tape to clear.

He really didn't need this kind of thing right now. Or ever, really, but especially not with all eyes on him.

"Newton?" Hermann asked hesitantly.

Newt tried to turn to look at him but he could not move his gaze from whatever this was in front of him. "Yeah?"

"Newton, what's wrong?"

What kind of question was that? What was wrong was that monsters had risen from the ocean and he had loved them and worked to destroy them and then they were all puppets to the real monsters who had done their very best to destroy them all and he was only sitting here because he and the people who cared for him far more than they should have after the last few years refused to let him be destroyed too.

That was always what was wrong, in some way or another.

"I-I don't know what this is," Newt said faintly. He whetted his lips.

Somehow he didn't register the motion until Hermann was planting himself right next to Newt on the sofa and gently put his hands on top of Newt's.

"It's a guitar," Hermann said softly, leaning against Newt in a very much welcomed grounding gesture. "It's _your_ guitar, Newton."

Newt shook his head in a quick, abortive motion. "It's not. It can't be."

"But it is," Hermann insisted. He guided Newt's hand along the surface of the guitar, tracing the sticker that said 'I believed in aliens before it was cool'.

"I…" Newt's voice cracked. One of his hands pulled away from Hermann's to explore the guitar on his own while the other flipped over so he and Hermann were holding hands. "How?"

"I don't know the full story," Hermann said. "But I can guess. I found this guitar in a pawn shop by chance one night when I was in Shanghai and I hadn't managed to meet up with you. I knew it was yours instantly. What didn't make sense to me was the fact that it was there. It wouldn't make sense for this to have been stolen as its market value as anything less than Newton Geiszler's guitar was negligible. I…have spent a very long time trying to make sense of this. Yes you had changed. We all had. Yes, you may have finally gotten rid of some of the clutter. But I couldn't see you parting with this and I simply could not reconcile the you that I remembered with the reality of the guitar being discarded. It made me wonder if I had ever really known you, if I had gotten something as basic as this wrong. And yet I knew that I did. Knew that half the time that was our exact problem."

Newt swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I didn't want to sell it. I didn't sell it. Or, at least…no one else sold it. Just my body and my Precursors and…it made me feel human. Made me feel like Newt the wannabe Rockstar nerd instead of Dr. Geiszler, corporate shill and Precursor puppet. They didn't need it and they didn't want anything that would…remind me."

"Remind you," Hermann echoed. His grip on Newt's hand tightened and he slung his free arm around Newt's middle and pulled him closer. "Remind you of what? Your whole bloody life?"

"Well," Newt said slowly. "Essentially yes."

He turned his head to see Hermann blinking a few times in confusion. "That…doesn't make any sense. You can't just not think about your entire life prior to when they kidnapped you."

As it happened, Newt had gotten on that plane with no force necessary. Without influence? That's not a knot he knows how to untangle. Hermann always put it in such dramatic terms. Just to make absolutely clear he viewed Newt as the biggest victim in all of this when he wasn't even one of the ones that died. Sure he had the world's worst decade but odds are good he'll have more than one decade left in him to make up for that and the people who died then will never get to have that.

He tried to force the thought out of his mind. His mood could only plummet if he kept thinking about that and right now he really didn't want that to happen.

"They weren't trying to literally mindwipe me," Newt said instead. "It was more…I was…discouraged from thinking too much about things from before them that mattered too much to me. Like, whatever, I could go to the aquarium all I wanted or watch every anime known to man but when it came to the people I loved? Friends, family? Like I said, they had ways to, uh, divert my attention. Things like that guitar? How was I supposed to do what they wanted and work to end the world when I'm looking at the goddamn embodiment of my passions? It's not like I didn't understand why it had to go, I just…" He closed his eyes, took a deep shuddering breath. Focused on the feeling of Herman's fingers slowly moving up and down his side. "That was…not a good idea. I was kind of a mess after that. More than usual, I mean. It was all symbolic for me and no matter how much I needed to keep it, I couldn't. Couldn't do any more than delay it. But…life moved on. I accepted that it was gone forever and even though it sucked it was nowhere near my biggest problem. And I haven't even thought of this since…I don't even know when. And now it's _here_."

"I kept it safe for you," Hermann said softly.

Newt pulled out of Hermann's hold so he could set the guitar aside and adjust their position. He put a hand on Hermann's cheek. "You kept it all safe for me."

Hermann smiled and leaned forward so his forehead was resting on Newt's. "I tried to."

"I love you."

Hermann chuckled softly. "You always have to one-up me, don't you, Newton?"

"I am noticing a distinct lack of reciprocation here," Newt complained but he was still smiling.

Hermann pulled back and gazed at him fondly.

Newt tried to pretend he didn't automatically lean forward to try and chase the touch because, really.

"I love you, Newton."

"Even when I'm being difficult?"

Hermann laughed. "Especially then. Otherwise I'd have found someone much easier to set my heart on."

"Easier," Newt scoffed. "You'd go mad with boredom in a week."

"I do seem rather comfortable where I am," Hermann agreed pleasantly.

"So, like, I'm totally moving in with you after all this is over, right?" Newt asked.

Hermann frowned, puzzled. "I thought we'd already established that."

"Well, we'd established just about everything else but we didn't really discuss this," Newt said. "And, like, I figured but at some point I think we had better talk about it."

"Talk about it? Like 'Newton, you are coming home with me and I will not take no for an answer'?" Hermann asked, raising an eyebrow.

Newt grinned. "Ah, so forward! I like it."

"I like you."

"I like your face," Newt said.

"I like your everything," Hermann said seriously.

Newt just shook his head. "Now who is one-upping who?"

Hermann shrugged. "I take my moments where I can get them."

"Seize the day," Newt said, nodding. "How very ancient Roman of you."

"If we're talking Latin, Newton, you know it's 'carpe diem.'"

"I'll carpe your diem."

"Newton."

"And what does fish have to do with any of this?"

"I refuse to participate in this conversation," Hermann said, turning his eyes to the ceiling.

This kind of thing happened to Newt a lot. "That just means I win."

And Hermann couldn't even say anything without participating in the conversation.

He reached for his brand new very old guitar. He played a few notes experimentally. It felt right in his hands. In-tune, too, which was unexpected. Some people tuned their guitar every day. It had been years since he had last played this. For a moment, he wildly wondered whether Hermann had learned to play in their years apart and if he had been playing Newt's instrument and exactly how many ways he could turn that into innuendo. But there was time for that later. And he would certainly be using all of those innuendos.

He glanced over at Hermann and saw that his eyes had brightened.

"Aw, you dig the guitar," Newt said happily.

"I should certainly hope so after all the effort I put into making this moment happen," Hermann said. "It was some kind of serendipity that night and I didn't intend to waste it."

"You're a groupie!" Newt said delightedly, continuing to pluck away at the strings. "You're my very own groupie! I have dreamed of this moment, let me tell you."

"Oh, just play me a song already," Hermann grumbled good-naturedly.

Newt cocked his head to the side as he briefly considered what song to play. There was every chance he'd flub one of the notes or the words. It had been some time, after all, even if his memory was very good and music helped people to remember. And it wasn't like he wouldn't play a song he was comfortable with anyway. What should it be? A love song? A song he had written himself? A love song he had written himself? Something that would make Hermann laugh?

There was really only one thing he could play under the circumstances.

He shot Hermann his best impish grin.

"Anyway, here's Wonderwall."


End file.
